


maybe one day you'll understand that hearts don't intend to break other hearts

by idreamtofreality



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Break Up, Clark is a fucking mess, M/M, Self Harm, but also if you read this it's your own goddamn fault, completed but posting one chapter at a time, feel free to send me hate, i'll let you know when that's coming in the notes so don't worry about accidentally reading it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamtofreality/pseuds/idreamtofreality
Summary: Everything was going incredible. Then, one day, Bruce just cuts him off, and Clark's left in the ruins of their relationship trying to figure out what the hell went wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

They were happy.

For the longest time, they were happy. Clark never imagined he could ever be so happy. After his father died, he'd had so much trouble dragging himself out of the gutters and trying to see the sunlight, but Bruce made it so damn _easy_ and, before Clark knew it, he was in a part of his life he would never want to leave.

They were both busy. They were heroes of their respective cities, and so it was difficult to meet each other, but they always found the time. Bruce checked up on his business in Metropolis a little too often, and Clark knew the best ways to slip inside the manor. And that was just the unscheduled visits--every Saturday evening, no matter how busy they were, they were together. If Bruce had business, Clark accompanied him in a neat suit and a pair of glasses. If Clark had to interview someone, Bruce gave him rides in his sleep sportscar. If Clark was fighting some baddie tearing up Metropolis, Bruce fought next to him, and, likewise: if Bruce had to deal with somebody in Gotham, Superman was behind him every step of the way, stealing kisses on the rooftops and laughing when Bruce started spiraling.

They were happy. God, they were happy. Clark felt almost drunk on the euphoria he felt around his boyfriend--even calling Bruce his boyfriend made him so giddy he became breathless. He felt drunk on their kisses, on the way Bruce writhed beneath him, all muscle and strength yet totally surrendering to Clark's touch. And he loved the contrast of Bruce's kisses, from the quick pecks he gave in the morning or between missions or absently while he was at his bat-computer to the deep kisses he gave Clark late at night, hands tracing the lines of Clark's body, legs hooking around Clark's waist to pull him closer, broken only by the gasps he let out when Clark touched something _just_ right.

He loved him. He could only barely comprehend how much he loved him. Bruce overwhelmed every thought, every breath, every waking moment. He was attractive, he was funny, he was smooth, he was kind. He was everything.

He tells this to Bruce one night, unable to help himself. He often proclaimed his love, but for some reason this felt different: it was a Saturday night, and Bruce had just dropped to Clark's side, chest heaving. "Damn," Bruce said, and Clark laughed. He peeled off the condom (neither were really sure if he needed one, but it didn't hurt to be safe) and tossed it to the other side of the room, disregarding cleanliness in return for another few peaceful minutes with his boyfriend.

"Damn is right," Clark said, and curled his arms around Bruce, pulling him up against his chests so their bodies sat flush together. "Hey, baby."

"Yeah?" Bruce's voice came out in a murmur.

"You're my everything."

Bruce twisted around then with a funny look on his face. Clark couldn't really read that look.

"I just meant," Clark said, backtracking, "That you mean so much to me, and that--"

Bruce traced Clark's mouth with one slender finger. His expression softened and that smile that Clark loved so much curled the corners of his lips. He pressed a kiss, brief and sweet, to Clark's temple. "You're my everything, too, Clark."

The blood rushed to Clark's cheeks and he buried his face in Bruce's shoulder.

"You just told me the exact same thing, and now you're embarrassed?"

"I can't help it." He brought his head up again so they could kiss, and then he grinned. "You're just so damn perfect."

Some of the light faded from behind Bruce's eyes. "I'm not perfect," he said softly.

"You're perfect to me."

"No, Clark, I--" He shook his head a few times and broke eye contact, which he never did unless he was worried about something. No, Bruce always liked to look people in the eye when he was talking to them: yes, he said, he paid attention to their body language, but their eyes hid the most secrets. And now he was looking away. "I'm not perfect."

"Is this about your nightly adventures again? Because, Bruce, you know that what you're doing is--"

"It isn't about that."

Clark put a hand on Bruce's cheek. "Then what is it about, baby?"

"Nothing," said Bruce, and this time he looked up into Clark's eyes again, and his eyes seemed a little shiner than usual. "Nothing at all. Don't worry about it."

And Clark didn't push it. He did worry about it, but he didn't push it.

The conversation never continued, and Clark never went back to Wayne Manor.


	2. Chapter 2

He tried, several times, to go back, But Bruce always had other plans. First it was that he was on missions, then it was that he was in Metropolis, so why go back? And then, when Clark tried to surprise him one day by sneaking in through the window, he found himself blocked by some sort of invisible field.

"What is that?" he asked Bruce once he found him crouched on top of one of Gotham's many gargoyles. "The thing around your house. What is it?"

"New security system," said Bruce nonchalantly. "I'm trying it out." He tapped on the side of his cowl, probably activating some sort of zoom mechanism so he could see the thugs on the street. Clark could see them just fine. He propped his chin on his hands and watched them, watched his boyfriend, watched the flickering lights of the city.

"Well, let me know when you figure out how to let me in, because I miss surprising you."

"Sure," said Bruce, "I'll let you know." He didn't seem entirely invested in the conversation, but Clark wasn't too bothered by that; when Bruce was in his bat suit, the mission was almost all he paid attention to.

"Also," Clark added, "I miss talking to the kids. And Alfred."

"You can visit them whenever you want. Nobody's living with me anymore."

This hit Clark like what he imagined a bullet would feel like if he were human. He gaped. "What? Tim and Damian and--"

"Moved out."

"Alfred?" Clark sputtered, and Bruce leveled his gaze at him.

"Alfred decided to travel."

"He _what_?"

"You heard me perfectly well." 

How could he be so cavalier about this? "So, what? You're living in that giant house all by yourself?"

"I have been for several months. It isn't a big deal, Clark. You know I don't spend that much time there, anyway."

"So the security system--" 

"Experimental." Bruce tapped the side of his cowl again and then moved his hand to the belt at his waist, pulling open a pouch that probably holds something that, in the right hands, could kill Clark. "It's easier to do this sort of thing when I don't have to worry about anyone needing to get in but myself."

This entire conversation was beyond worrying. Bruce had always said that he viewed company as unnecessary, but Clark always saw the effect of loneliness in Bruce, even when his kids had only been gone for a couple days. He liked to say he didn't need people, but he did. That was how it had been for so long but now, for some reason, it was different. There was none of that sadness right now. Instead, there was only resignation. Acceptance. And it terrified the hell out of Clark.

"Bruce, what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on." Bruce finished assembling the parts he'd pulled from his pouch and inspected all sides of it with scrutiny.

"Why is everyone leaving?" 

He lifted one shoulder. "They all have their own lives, Superman." He always used Clark's hero name whenever they were out like this. For some reason, this tie it made Clark feel weepy. "They're exploring what life could be like without the Batman. And I think they're finding that they like it very much."

Clark swallowed. "Don't say that."

"I'm not complaining or trying to put myself down. I'm being realistic." He lifted the tool he'd built, fitted it against his shoulder, and aimed it toward the thugs on the street. "Whether or not you believe it, the majority of peoples' lives would be perfectly fine if not better without the Batman."

"So you're thinking about quitting?"

"You know that only death could take me away from this."

Another bullet. Clark put a hand to his chest and tried to rub away the pain. "You're worrying me with all this talk, Bruce."

"You don't need to worry about anything."

"That's what you said last time."

He glanced over his shoulder at Clark, and there was something terrible in his gaze that Clark couldn't quite recognize. "I meant it last tie, and I mean it now."

"You aren't telling me something."

"You should know by now that I don't tell anyone everything," said Bruce. He pulled the trigger and a smoke bomb exploded at the thugs' feet. "You should know that by now." And then he leapt off the building and glided to his targets, and all at once Clark realized what he'd seen in Bruce's gaze. He'd only taken this long because he'd never seen it before in Bruce, and he'd never expected to.

It had been cruelty.


	3. Chapter 3

Dick had always seemed so natural with anyone to whom he felt attraction. Even when he was a boy, Clark couldn't help but notice the ease he had approaching anyone of any gender or age. He oozed confidence.

It might have been embarrassing, but he'd been the one Clark sought out when he'd found himself pining after Bruce. Dick was a teenager by then; Clark caught him one of his nights on patrol.

"What's up?" Dick stretched his legs out and rubbed at the muscles. They were probably aching with how many times he did those dramatic flips of his--Clark knew that Bruce constantly told him to cool it with the theatrics, but Dick didn't listen, and Bruce was weirdly pleased with that outcome.

"It's...about your dad," said Clark. Dick instantly became mischievous, and Clark once again found himself charmed, despite his embarrassment at the topic.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"You do realize many a person has tried to charm my dad, right?"

Clark's stomach fluttered. "Uh...yes? Should I be concerned?"

"Depends." Dick started massaging his other leg. "In the past week alone he's had probably a dozen different people try to ask him out. So what do you have that they don't?"

"Are you trying to make me feel worse?"

The boy became very serious. He dropped his leg and looked calmly at Clark with a level of wisdom Clark could not even begin to hope he could garner. "No. I'm not. I want you to know what you're getting into. The Batman is a busy guy, and he's a serious guy, and he's a complicated guy, and it takes a lot to impress him. It takes even more to get him to open up. So what makes you think you've got something that everybody else doesn't? Yesterday we had a supermodel at our door. The day before that, we had an actual superhero hit him up while he was on patrol. He turned both of them down, so what do you have to offer?" 

Clark rubbed the back of his neck. "I think...I love him."

Dick sighed. "A lot of people do." 

"Are you saying I shouldn't pursue this? What I feel? You think he'll turn me down?"

Dick sighed again. He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. "Look, Supes. I like you. I really do. And I think you have the potential to make the Batman happy, and that's saying a lot. But the last time he let himself go, it was with Talia al Ghul, and, well..." He allowed his voice to trail off. Clark, though he burned with curiosity, didn't ask him to elaborate. "My point is, it's going to be hard being in a relationship with him. He isn't going to tell you everything. In fact, he isn't going to tell you most things. You're going to feel like you're on the outside looking in. He'll disappear for weeks on end and then appear again like nothing even happened. You'll ask him question and he won't give you answers. It'll feel perfect one day and on the next it'll feel like the worst thing in the world. And then, sometimes, when everything seems perfect, he'll push you away with no explanation, and then it'll feel like the world's ending, and you're just going to have to deal with that until he comes back." He lifted his shoulders. "And all of that is just if you're his kid. It's worse if you're his partner."

"I don't care," said Clark. He set his jaw. "I love him."

"Then here's my advice." Dick pulled from his side his grappling hook and weighed it in his hands. "Communicate. As often as you can, talk to him. Surprise him with visits. Let him know that he matters and that, no matter what happens, you won't leave him behind. That's the best way to get to his heart. You just have to trust that he'll open up enough to let you in."

"Anything else?"

"Love him so much he forgets that he hates himself," said Dick, and gave Clark a salute with a very boyish grin--a direct contrast to the tone of their conversation. "I'll see you later, Superman." And then he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

He took Dick's advice. One Saturday evening, he found Bruce at one of his many Wayne Enterprise events, and he offered him a flute of champagne.

"Mister Kent." Bruce took the champagne with one raised eyebrow. He had a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, which Clark knew he always displayed at public events. That was who Bruce Wayne was to the public after all: sly, sexy, coy, et cetera. Clark loved it. Clark also loved the way he got all serious as Batman, and the way he softened in the privacy of his own home. The latter was a situation Clark only experienced once--it was after a particularly bad fight, and Bruce found Clark beat to hell on the outskirts of Gotham. He'd taken Clark back to his manor and patched him up and it was the first time Clark had ever seen Bruce be so gentle, and it was also, coincidentally, the moment Clark fell in love with him. "Are you reporting this event? I read your last article, and I was once again impressed with your integrity."

Clark's mouth dropped open. He'd been complimented by Bruce before, but they'd always come in the Batman's growling voice and directed at his skills as Superman. Now, with the compliment directed at his skills as a _writer_ and arriving in Bruce Wayne's classic, sultry purr, he was caught way off guard. "Uh. Thank you," he finally forced out.

Bruce seemed to ignore the fact that Clark didn't answer the question. "I trust you're enjoying the event," he said, sipping at his champagne. "I remembered to order those hors d'oevres you like so much. The pinwheels. Have you tried any?"

"Uh, well, I haven't--" Clark swallowed, and then shook his head. "Wait. You knew I was coming?"

"Of course I did." Bruce winked at him as he downed the rest of his champagne. "You know me, Mr. Kent. I'm always prepared."

If Bruce knew Clark was coming, then did he also know why Clark was here? The thought made Clark's knees begin to wobble. He lifted himself off the ground a fraction of a centimeter so Bruce wouldn't be able to see him tremble.

Bruce gave him a knowing look. Clark lowered himself back to the ground.

"Nothing gets past you," he said, "Does it?"

"Not a lot, no."

"Then you know why I'm here."

Bruce caught a passing waitress and gave her his glass and a sincere thank you "for her service." Clark covered his laughter with a cough--Bruce was such a _softie_. "Yes, Mr. Kent. I believe I do."

"Then, uh. Do you have an answer?"

"You haven't yet asked a question." He reached over to Clark's lapel and smoothed one hand over the fabric. "Go ahead," he said, giving Clark a heavily-lidded gaze, "Ask me."

Clark couldn't breathe.

"Come on, Mr. Kent." Bruce leaned forward. His lips brushed Clark's ear. "All of that invulnerability, and all I have to do is sweet-talk you some? What would happen if I actually flirted with you?"

This wasn't exactly what Clark thought was going to happen. He walked into this event with full expectations that he would knock Bruce off his feet, that he would make Bruce swoon, that he would woo Bruce with a cleverly-worded proposal and then they'd sneak up to the roof and steal kisses under the moonlight.

He wasn't sure _why_ he thought that. It was a fantasy that he never could have considered if he was actually standing in front of Bruce because good _heavens_ that man was smooth.

"I seem to have more than one weakness," Clark managed, somehow, to say.

Bruce touched Clark's jaw, turning his face so he was looking Bruce right in the eye. God, he was close. He was close enough that he could feel Bruce's breath on his mouth. He was so close that, if Clark just leaned forward the slightest bit, he could steal that kiss he so craved. "Ask me," Bruce whispered.

"Would you." Clark swallowed hard again. It was like there was a chunk of kryptonite stuck in his throat. "Would you like to go to dinner with me, Mr. Wayne?" Using such formalities had been borderline erotic coming from Bruce, but from Clark's mouth, in Clark's voice, it sounded so embarrassingly clumsy.

But Bruce smiled.

"I would very much enjoy that, Clark. Let me know when and where and I'm yours." He took Clark's hand, lifted it up, and brushed a kiss onto Clark's knuckles. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to which I need to attend. I do hope you'll enjoy the rest of the party."

He glided away, and Clark stumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

But Dick's first piece of advice was to communicate, and Clark took that advice whole-heartedly. He texted Bruce constantly. He never held back with his feelings. He gave him surprise visits and dedicated every Saturday afternoon to him.

And it _worked_. When Clark finally got the courage to tell Bruce that he loved him, it was in the sixth month that they were dating, and Bruce returned the confession without hesitation. And that was the first night Clark stayed the night at Wayne manor, and it was the first time he got to peel those perfectly-matching clothes from Bruce's body, and it was the first time he saw what pure ecstasy looked like on Bruce's face.

And he loved him, and Bruce loved him back, and so much of that was because Clark followed Dick's advice.

But it wasn't working now. Clark kept sending messages to Bruce and Bruce scarcely replied. He couldn't stop thinking about Dick's warning: _sometimes, when everything seems perfect, he'll push you away with no explanation, and then it'll feel like the world's ending, and you're just going to have to deal with that until he comes back._

So it was finally happening. Obviously it had happened to Dick several times before, and Clark had tried to prepare himself for it, but this was so much worse than he thought it would be.

He tried to imagine what the reason could be--tried to imagine why Bruce would push him away.

"Often," Dick had explained a few months after Clark and Bruce first went out, "He'll ghost you to protect you. He'll decide that it's the best way to go about a situation, and he'll disappear, and then maybe when he comes back he'll provide an explanation."

"What, seriously?"

"Yeah. It's pretty shitty. But that's the Batman, and that's how the Batman's always been."

"What about the other times--when he isn't protecting you?"

"The other times? The other times, he's decided that you're not a good part of his life, and he'll cut you out. Why do you think he stopped going out with Talia? She wasn't a bad person. It was just that he recognized they weren't good together, so he ended things."

"Is that going to happen to me?"

"I don't know. But don't walk around on ice, Superman. Just because there's a chance you could lose your happiness in the future doesn't mean you should sacrifice that happiness in the present. There's an infinite amount of happy moments you could have with him now. Don't lose that to your fear."

But those infinite moments were over, at least for now. Clark flitted between the assurance that their relationship would return to what it was and the terror he had that Bruce found him unworthy of continuation. Which was it? How long before he would be able to tell?

He wished he could talk to Dick again, but he was out of town, off doing some mission Clark wasn't classified to know about. And the rest of Bruce's family were, just as Bruce had said, off doing their own thing, living their own lives. Even Alfred was on vacation, which Clark never thought was possible.

So he tried again. He called Bruce, waited for a pickup he knew wasn't coming, and then flew to Gotham. He found Bruce coming out of Gotham P.D. and followed him until he came out of the bat-mobile, shooting up into the sky and landing on top of Gotham's oldest cathedral. Clark only knew it was the oldest because he'd picnicked up here with Bruce once, and Bruce shared the history of Gotham in between bites of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was passionate. He loved his city. He would give everything for it.

The atmosphere tonight was much different than that picnic. Clark landed behind Bruce and took a long minute to watch him work. He was graceful and smooth and precise; every movement was purposeful. Every decision was planned.

"I saw you're buckling down on bad guys," Clark said at last to break the silence. Bruce, unsurprisingly, didn't start at Clark's voice. "I saw it on the news. Crime and recidivism are at an all-time low. That's amazing, sweetheart."

Bruce didn't turn around. "I'm just doing my duty to the people."

"What you're doing is working yourself sick. I also saw what you're doing in the city. When are you sleeping?"

"I rest when I need to rest and I work when I need to work. You don't need to worry about me."

"But I _am_ worried about you. You're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You're not taking care of yourself."

"I'm taking care of myself just fine."

"Dammit, Bruce! Your family's gone and you're all alone. Don't pretend like you don't need them!" 

"I'm not pretending anything of the sort. I'm in constant contact with them."

All of the air left Clark's lungs at once. "So why aren't you in contact with me, Bruce?"

Bruce didn't answer.

"Please just look at me and tell me what's going on."

A sigh. Bruce turned slowly and met Clark's eyes. His gaze was steady. Clark couldn't read any emotion on Bruce's face, and it frightened him. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"I want to break up."

For a moment, everything stopped. Clark stared at the man in front of him and almost didn't recognize him. "You _what_?"

Bruce shrugged. "It's been a long time coming, I think. We don't have that connection we had when we first met." 

"What? Yes we do!" His entire body felt numb. Clark struggled to catch his breath. "We do!" 

"Even if you feel it, I don't. I'm sorry. Whatever we felt in the beginning wasn't love. It was lust and the brief thrill of a new relationship. Now that's over."

"That isn't true."

"If you know anything about me, Superman, you know that I get along with only a select few people. You aren't one of those people. You don't have to feel bad about it. That's just how it is."

Clark fell to his knees. "Bruce, whatever is going on--"

"Nothing is going on. I'm breaking up with you. That's it." Bruce looked somewhere beyond Clark, now. His eyes scanned the city. "For what it's worth, you were a good lay."

The sob that was building up in Clark's chest burst out, and he pressed a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, don't cry." Bruce's lip curled. "You knew we weren't going to last forever. You were clingy and I was busy."

"We were _happy_," Clark said. "Bruce, please. We were _happy_."

"Yeah. I was happy to be in your bed and you were happy to be in mine. But I'm just as happy to get fucked by any of the supermodels who pursue me, and the difference is, they won't stalk me at all times of the day."

"Bruce--"

"Stop calling me that. We're in public. Someone might hear you."

Clark tried to reach out, tried to grasp at Bruce's arm, but Bruce jerked away from him. His lip curled even more. "This isn't you. Dick told me--"

The Batman laughed. It was harsh and loud and cruel. "You're getting advice from a _child_? What did he tell you? id he say that I might try and leave you to protect you, is that it?"

"Yes. He said that you'll push people away to protect them and that--"

"Open your _eyes_. Stop being so naive. Stop clinging to this idea that you matter to me at all. Jesus. I knew this would be difficult, but I had no idea you were going to be so goddamn pathetic about it."

Clark felt like he was floating, but not in the way he did with his abilities. No, he felt lie he was out of his body, like he was far away from this situation. This was happening to someone else, not him. This couldn't be happening to him.

"Just." Bruce pinched his nose. "Just get out of here. Go back to Metropolis and do whatever it is that you do there when you aren't abandoning your people to stick your dick in something."

Clark almost wished this hurt. The pain would be better than the numbness."

"I don't want you back in Gotham," said Bruce. "Got that? If I see you here again, I'll see about putting a shield around the entire city rather than just my house. If that still doesn't convince you, I'll make sure to stop you permanently. And I'm sure you know that I am fully capable of taking you down."

Clark's entire body was shaking.

"I told you to leave," said Bruce. "I'm not going to ask you again."


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't know what to do after that. He was half convinced that none of it was real but, when he returned to Metropolis and slid open the window to his bedroom, he found Bruce's scent on his pillow.

And then the pain hit him.

He'd been in pain before. He'd fought monsters four times his size and come out bloodied and broken. He'd lived through finding out his biological parents and his entire planet was gone and dead and he'd lived through his father's funeral.

But this was somehow worse. This hurt worse.

He laid in his bed, curled around that pillow, and he cried. He cried until he couldn't breathe, and then he gasped for air, and then he cried more. He could hear Bruce's heartbeat, thumping steadily all those miles away. He couldn't stop listening to it. He couldn't stop wondering what had gone wrong.

There was, in the beginning, a tiny spark; there was a spark that spoke of the possibility that this was all just a set-up, that Bruce was still trying to protect Clark, but Clark remembered Bruce's cruel laughter, his cruel words, his "_Open your eyes. Stop being so naive_."

Everything hurt. Everything hurt so fucking much and Clark just didn't want to _feel_ anything anymore.

He cried for three days, and then he took a shower and changed his clothes and he went out. He went to a bar. He forgot his glasses, and laughed when someone said he looked like Superman.

"That guy?" he said. "You think someone like that would be in a dive bar when he has a whole fortress all to himself? Nah. I'm Clark Kent."

They shook hands.

"Paul," said the guy. "It's nice to meet you, Clark. Care for a drink?"

Clark hesitated for only half a second, and then he plastered a grin onto his face. "You bet your ass I want a drink. Where're you from, Paul? What do you do?"

Paul was from Gotham. He used to work for Penguin, but he got himself straightened out and now he was an accountant in Metropolis for some baker Clark had never of.

Clark got a table in the back with Paul and tried to lose himself in the other man's kisses, tried to lose himself in the way Paul's hand brought him to release, tried to lose himself in the smell of Paul's hair. And Paul winked when they were done, and he asked Clark to call him, and Clark threw away Paul's number as he left the bar.

And then, the next night, he did it again. This time he remembered his glasses. He found an older man in a different bar and they fucked in the alleyway outside. The man said, "I think I love you," and Clark didn't bother to remember his name.

The third night, as he was coming out of another alleyway with another guy, he ran into Lois. There was something in her expression that brought everything crashing down. The pain came rushing back tenfold.

"Hey, baby," said the guy, "Wanna join us?"

"Shut up," Clark snarled. To Lois, he said, "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you." 

Clark pushed at the guy's shoulder. "Go inside. I'm right behind you."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go." 

The guy went back into the bar and Clark turned to Lois.

"Why?" 

"Because I'm worried about you." She raised an eyebrow at the bar. "Do you even know that guy's name?"

"Yeah. It's Harry. Or Jim. Or something."

"Those are completely different names."

"Whatever, Lois. What's the point?"

She pulled her coat tighter around her waist and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "I just wanted to talk to you. Whatever you need, Clark--"

"I don't need anything." He was starting to sound like Bruce. God, that hurt. "Go home, Lois. It isn't safe for you here."

Her face hardened. "You're falling apart. What the hell happened, Clark?"

Clark's own face crumpled. "Bruce, he--"

Lois understood. She folded Clark into her arms and held him. Just held him. "Oh, honey."

"And he was...he was so _harsh_, Lois, and I couldn't figure out why. He said...he said." Clark choked back a sob and Lois rubbed her hand across the muscles of Clark's back. "He said he never loved me, Lo, and I can't...I can't...."

"It's okay. Take deep breaths."

Clark pushed away from her, shaking his head. "I can't do this right now."

"If you need to talk about it, Clark--"

"I need to go," Clark said, and then he ran, and then he flew, and he didn't care who saw him. He flew blindly and he flew carelessly and he didn't stop until he was back in his ice fortress.

He sat, alone, in the entrance, and he watched the sun set. He could still hear Bruce's heartbeat from here. He doubted he would ever be able to _not_ hear it--to _not_ immediately single it out over all the other billions of heartbeats.

He knew he should've gone back. He knew that he should've gone to his work, tried to get himself back into the groove of life. He knew he should have pulled himself together.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He sat in that ice fortress alone and he watched the sun rise and set and he listened to Bruce's heartbeat and he tried to ignore the fact that it felt like his chest was rotting and collapsing from the outside in.


	7. Chapter 7

It was about four weeks before Clark finally left the fortress. He flew to Star City and went immediately to another bar. He couldn't get drunk, but he figured he could try. He drank without abandon. The bartender said, "Don't make me cut you off," and Clark snarled something about having a high tolerance and the bartender said, "If you want to keep drinking, go to another bar."

So Clark went to another bar. He drank some more. He got kicked out again. He went to another bar.

"Hey man," said Paul from behind Clark many bars later. "You never called."

Clark squinted at him.

"I'm here on business," said Paul. "What about you?"

"Vacation," said Clark. "I'm just...getting away."

Paul nodded and smiled. "Well, it's good to see you again, Clark. Do you think--"

Clark brought their lips crashing together. He pressed Paul against the bar and kissed him desperately, deeply, carelessly. Paul laughed against his mouth.

"Well, okay."

Clark dragged him outside and tore their pants open and he fucked him against the wall probably a little too hard, but Paul was smiling by the end of it, all breathless and grinning.

"Jesus. I should've forgone the hand job that first time we met."

Clark ran a hand through his hair. He leaned on the wall next to Paul and craned his neck backward, searching for a shadow in the sky he knew wouldn't appear. "Round two?" he asked.

"Already?"

Clark glanced at Paul. The other man was panting a little. He ha to use the wall to hold himself up.

"We don't have to if you aren't up to it."

"No, I..." Paul laughed again and shook his head. "I am. I was just wondering if you wanted to grab a hotel."

"I don't need one."

Paul watched him for a second, suddenly serious. Then he smiled. "Alright," he said. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Clark slammed him against the wall again.


	8. Chapter 8

They parted with an agreement that they wouldn't repeat any of that. It was mostly on Paul's part: "I don't think you're in a great headspace," he told Clark as Clark tried to find the button of his pants, "And I don't think I'd be able to walk if we did this again. It was fun, though, man."

Clark snorted. "Yeah," he said, "Fun."

Paul tilted his head. "Bad break-up?"

"He was from Gotham too," said Clark, and Paul chuckled.

"I'd argue with you, but we're really all the same."

Clark didn't bother to refute this. Paul had some of the same smells as Bruce--that distinct Gotham smell.

"Hope all ends well," said Paul. "I'll see you around. Maybe."

Clark waited until Paul walked away, and then he went in the opposite direction.

He walked for hours, just wandering through the city. He looked up at the lights and found comfort in the fact that no one in this city knew him--no one in this city cared about him.

"Uh. Clark Kent?"

Shit. Except for _one_ person.

Clark found the nearest building and dropped down next to it. Oliver sat next to him. He wasn't in his Green Arrow suit--rather, he wore a business suit. There was a limo across the street.

"How'd you find me?" Clark's voice came out dull.

"Roy saw you wandering around and thought he recognized you." Oliver scratched at his beard. "I, uh...heard what happened."

Clark closed his eyes. "What did you hear?"

"That Bruce broke up with you."

"Did you hear why?"

Oliver was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "No. I try not to make that sort of thing my business."

"He said that I was just a good lay. That's what he said. He said that I was clingy and that he never loved me."

"Oh. Shit. I'm sorry."

Clark slammed his head against the wall behind him. The concrete cracked and Oliver winced. "I told him that he was falling apart and then he broke up with me. And now look. Now look what I've become."

"Clark." Oliver's hand fell onto Clark's shoulder. "Let me help you. We can get your life back on track and you can get over him. I've had bad break-ups, too. A lot of them were my fault. But they don't have to mean the end of the world."

"He was my world."

"And what was your world before that?"

Clark's eyes opened. He blinked against the harsh lights of the city and then looked over at Oliver, whose eyes were so soft. "I don't know," he said, "Being Superman?"

"Can't that be your world again?"

"After him? I don't know."

Oliver nodded a few times. Then he stood and he offered Clark his hand. "Come on. I'll give you a ride and you can stay with me."

"I can...I can fly."

"I know. But sometimes it's nice just to have someone look after you. You don't have to be alone through this, Clark."

If Clark let his eyes lose their focus--if he let the lights drown out Oliver's face, he could almost imagine it was Bruce in front of him right now. He reached up and took Oliver's hand. "Thanks," he said, and he let Oliver lead him to the waiting limousine. It was clean inside. It looked just like Bruce's limos.

"You have any clothes or anything?" Oliver asked, pulling the door shut.

"No. I just...came back from the fortress."

"That's fine. I can give you some of my clothes. We're about the same size." Oliver leaned toward the driver and gave her the destination. "You were at the fortress for, what, a couple weeks?"

"Four weeks," said Clark.

"The Daily Planet keeps reporting on your absence."

Guilt seized at Clark's chest. "Is everything okay?"

"In Metropolis? Sure. Barry drops in sometimes. I've visited once or twice. I think Diana dropped in last week. We've got your back, Clark."

Clark slumped in his seat. "Have you heard from him?"

"Bruce? I don't think so, no. Not since our last mission together, and it was...well, to be honest, it was a little embarrassing. I was kinda out of it." He shrugged. "He also usually hits me up when he's checking on his business in Star City, but it's been a while since that happened."

"Do you know how he's doing?"

Oliver cracked one of the windows. He looked significantly more rumpled than he did whenever Clark saw him in the news or when he was in his Green Arrow suit. Oh, god, he reminded Clark so much of Bruce. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Please."

Oliver let out his breath. "Even if I didn't tell you, you'd probably google it, right?"

Clark nodded.

"Okay, well. The first couple weeks you were gone, the stats that had been getting better got even better."

"So the crime rates--"

"He hit another record."

Clark sniffled. "What else?"

"I don't know. For the last week and a half, no one's seen the Batman. He seems to be taking a break."

Now Clark sat up, attentive. "A break? You mean he's retiring?"

"I don't know. Like I said, I haven't had any contact with him for a couple months, at least."

"Could you try to get in contact with him? For me?"

Oliver seemed immensely tired in that moment. He rubbed his beard again. "Clark, I don't think that's a good idea. You know Bruce. You know he would see right through me."

"But can you try?"

"I can...see what I can do."

The limo pulled to a stop and Oliver opened the door, sliding out so he could go around the car and open Clark's door, too. "I'll set you up in one of my guest bedrooms."

"Oliver."

Oliver glanced over his shoulder as he unlocked his front door. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. I mean it. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I know. But you're my friend, and you're in pain, and I want to help you."

Clark felt dizzy. His feet tangled beneath him and he lost his balance, but Oliver caught him before he hit the floor.

"You've been drinking."

"Yeah. I drank...a lot."

"How much?"

"I don't know. I just kept drinking until I felt something."

The noise that came from Oliver's mouth was brief but amused. "That damn metabolism of yours, huh?"

"I guess."

Clark's eyes fluttered. One moment they were in the foyer and the next they were in a lavish bedroom like the ones Clark always saw at Wayne Manor. This bedroom was decorated more modernly than it was in Gotham's more gothic style, but it felt the same, and Clark knew that just as much effort and money went into the decor.

"Oh. Pretty."

Oliver laughed again--so softly, just under his breath. Oh, that was so Bruce. "Yeah, I try. Here, let's get you into bed." He lifted Clark--_lifted_ him--into the bed and helped him settle onto the mattress. "I'll go grab you something to sleep in. Wait here."

Clark buried his nose in the pillows. He took a deep breath. It didn't even remotely smell like Bruce. Did he want it to smell like Bruce? He didn't know.

"Hey, Clark. I've got you some pajamas."

Clark pushed himself upward. Oliver had changed--he was in silk pajamas, and he was holding a similar set in his hands. "This okay?"

"Oliver," Clark whispered. "Oliver."

Oliver's eyebrow rose. "Yeah?"

Clark hooked his arm around Oliver's neck and pulled him down to his mouth. Oliver's beard felt scratchy against Clark's cheek, but his lips were sweet and warm and didn't taste of alcohol like all of Clark's hook-ups had.

"Clark. Clark!" Oliver put a hand on Clark's chest, pushing him away. "What are you doing?"

Clark, because he was pathetic (_I had no idea you were going to be so goddamn pathetic about it_), started crying again. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Clark. Get dressed and get some sleep, okay? We can talk about this in the morning."

"Oliver, I'm sorry."

"Honestly. It's okay." Oliver put his hand on the side of Clark's face. His expression was so gentle and so sincere. "Get some sleep, Clark."


	9. Chapter 9

Oliver brought him breakfast in the morning--waffles, which were Clark's favorite. He also brought a small pitcher of syrup and several different kinds of beverages. "I didn't know what you liked, but I figured everyone likes waffles."

Clark picked up the fork. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem." Oliver took one of the many chairs and pulled it up next to the bed. He straddled the back of it. "You feeling a little more sober?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry about last night." Clark had remembered it as soon as he woke up and his cheeks still hadn't stopped burning.

"I don't blame you. I've often been called a discount Bruce Wayne, so..." He shrugged.

"The beard makes it different," Clark said before he could stop himself, and Oliver snorted.

"Does it?"

"Loads." Clark figured he'd humiliated himself enough that continuing to say dumb things wouldn't make a difference. "You doing anything today?"

"Unfortunately. I've got business to which I must attend. Owning a company is demanding. And Roy is also back in town, and I'm afraid Jason will be here soon after, so I have to make sure they don't destroy the city."

"Jason?" said Clark. "Jason Todd? Bruce's Jason?"

Oliver chewed on his bottom lip. "Yeah. Jason Todd."

"Do you think he--"

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

Clark deflated. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"I'm sorry." Oliver stood and patted Clark's leg. "You have my number. If you need anything, feel free to give me a call. I've left keys to the blue Ferrari downstairs attached to keys to the house. They're in the kitchen but, if you can't find them, just grab one of the million people constantly running around the house. They should know where it is. And, uh." He paused, thinking. "Nothing's off-limits. Go anywhere you want. I don't know if you even know where the Arrow Cave is, but you can go in there, too, if you want."

"Thanks."

"I'll see you later."

Clark ate the rest of his breakfast in silence, and then he carried his tray down to the kitchen and found the keys Oliver had left for him. There was also a note saying Oliver had programmed all of his tech to recognize him, in case Clark wanted to get into anywhere restricted.

He took to exploring the manor.

He didn't fly, because Oliver was right--there were a million people moving around the house--but he did use his x-ray vision to look through each of the walls before he went into the rooms. Really, he wanted to find the Arrow Cave. He'd been in Bruce's bat cave a thousand times before, and he loved it. He loved the constant hum of noise. He loved how serious and focused Bruce got. He loved the blinking screens and the lights and the little announcer voice that rang out whenever one of Bruce's family members arrived. Was the Arrow Cave anything like that? Would it be just as comforting? Would it make Clark worse?

He texted Oliver: _How do I get to ac?_

Only five minutes passed before he got a reply: _Don't want to send over text. Would you be able to hear me if I said it out loud?_

Oh. Clark hadn't singled someone out like this in a while. He'd only been doing it with Bruce. But he tried--he remembered that kiss last night, remembered how Oliver's heart had begun pounding. He focused in on that heartbeat and then he listened, carefully, to the sounds of the city.

There. That was Oliver. He was in a meeting. His heartbeat was steady and strong.

_Go ahead_, Clark messaged him.

Oliver's breath came out in a woosh, and then the instructions came--just under his breath, soft enough that a normal person would have to strain to hear him even if they were sitting right next to him. But Clark listened, and Clark got all of the information, and he sent a thank you message, and after he caught one of the servants and figured out what clothes he could change into, he slipped out the window.

The Arrow Cave was smaller than the bat cave.

It was also less technologically advanced but, fittingly, had much more arrows. Clark touched the tip of one and then jerked his hand back, yelping.

He was bleeding.

"What the hell?" He brought his hand close to the arrow again, just hovering over the metal, and felt a pulse of pain. "Kryptonite?" How many members of the Justice League had kryptonite? Clark understood Bruce having it, but Oliver? Oliver wasn't the type to have a million and one contingency plans. That was Bruce's thing.

And then he noticed that, even as he stepped away from the arrow, he still felt the dull throb of pain. He moved deeper into the cave, hands held out, trying to gauge where the pain was coming from. If he felt it _this_ much, that meant there was a lot of kryptonite hidden somewhere.

The cave was a maze, just like Bruce's cave. And it smelled almost the same--like the earth after a heavy rain. The beeping of Oliver's computers were to Clark's left, and something was dripping ahead of him. He headed toward the drip, using his x-ray vision again to see through the walls.

There was a secret room. Clark stopped just short of it.

"_Authorization code_."

Clark frowned at the source of the voice--a tiny speaker just next to where Clark imagined the secret room entrance should be. "Uh. Superman?"

The speaker whirred. "_Confirmed_," it said, and the door slid open. Clark stepped inside. He was so much weaker in here, and after scanning the room, he knew why: there was a huge container of lead hidden in the corner.

It was a big container, which meant there was a lot of kryptonite. It was _so much_ kryptonite. The volume rivaled Bruce's collection.

How had Oliver gotten this much kryptonite? Clark should have heard about this much arriving to Earth. And how had Oliver gotten to it before Bruce or Lex Luthor did?

"Oliver got that a couple months ago."

Clark whirled around. The Red Hood stood in the secret room's entrance, arms crossed over his chest.

"Jason." Clark's voice cracked. Jason reached up, took off his helmet, and shook out his dark hair. That white streak almost glowed in the shadows of the cave.

"Hey, Clark."

"Do you..." Clark pointed at the lead box. "Do you know why?"

"All the note said was that he needed it more than Bruce."

So it was Bruce's stash. Clark was in so much pain and he knew it wasn't just because of the kryptonite. "What's going on?"

Jason tucked his helmet under his arm. "He just needs some alone time."

"Please don't lie to me. Just tell me what's going on. If he's doing this to protect me, we can just talk. We can figure something out. It doesn't have to be like this."

"Nothing's going on, Clark. And I really wouldn't recommend going back to the city. I know as well as anyone that, if Bruce wants someone out of Gotham, they're sure as hell going to get their ass kicked out of Gotham."

Clark tasted bile. He swallowed it down. "Have you seen him?"

"It's been about a month. But that's normal."

"Has anyone seen him _recently_?"

For a moment, Jason didn't answer. He just looked at Clark. His eyes were a little sad, like they always were. A little broken. Then he said, "He's fine, Clark."

"I'm worried about him."

"After what he said to you?"

"You heard?"

"I got the gist." Jason sighed and raked his hand through his hair. "And even the gist was a lot. How could you forgive him for saying all of that to you?"

"If he was lying to protect me--"

"I'll tell you something, Clark. Bruce has pushed me away more times than I can count. He's told me that he's busy, that he doesn't have the time for me, that the city can't afford to have me on its streets--or even that the city would be worse off if I was on the streets. But he's never told me that he didn't care about me."

Oliver's shirt was becoming soaked with Clark's tears. He sniffled and wiped at his nose with one of his sleeves. "I don't understand. I thought we were happy."

Jason, slowly, pulled Clark from the secret room and closed the door after them. His hand was warm around Clark's fingers. "The last time Bruce was happy was a long time ago, when his parents were still alive. Don't take it personally."

"How could I not? I loved him, and he told me that he's never loved me. But I know that's a lie."

Jason's hand was holding him steady. "How do you know?"

"I felt it."

"So? You know Bruce is good at masks, Clark. The entire city _feels_ that he's a playboy philanthropist who occasionally enters a charitable mood. So what's the difference between you and them?"

"I _knew_ him," said Clark.

"You knew more than them, sure. But Bruce has layers, and you have to work to pull back those layers. The closest anyone's gotten is Dick."

"So what was I to him, then? Nothing? I don't believe that." He couldn't afford to believe that.

Jason released Clark and started wandering around the cave. His fingers traced over the kryptonite arrows that Clark had just been examining. "Not nothing. You were a fling. You were the first person to know his secret identity and also be willing to sleep with him, so he took advantage of that, because he never wastes an opportunity. And, when it wasn't fun anymore, he stopped."

"I had no idea he was even _capable_ of this."

"If you had known that he was going to use you and then leave you, would you have still asked him out?"

"Yes."

Jason arched an eyebrow, and Clark reconsidered. He'd first asked out Bruce because he knew that he was kind. He'd fallen in love with Bruce because he knew he was kind. If he had known Bruce could do this...

It didn't feel worth it.

"I know you usually get advice from my dear older brother," said Jason, "But here's my advice anyway: don't waste your sadness on him. Don't waste your time on him. If you're going to think about him, get angry. He treated you like shit. You're allowed to get mad."

Clark pressed his lips together.

"Think about it," Jason said. He put his helmet back on. "I'm off to find Roy. You know how to contact me."

Clark watched Jason leave. Then he went to Oliver's display of arrows and he took one off and then he left, too.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm

He hid in his room in Oliver's manor. He barricaded the door with the heavy armoire and then sat with his back to one of the walls. He took Oliver's kryptonite arrow. He pricked his finger again experimentally, and then he dragged the edge against his arm.

Blood bubbled to the surface, spilled over his skin, stained the edges of Oliver's shirt. He laughed, unable to help himself, and did it again, digging deeper this time, loving the way the sharpness detracted from the pain Bruce left in his wake.

It hurt so much. It hurt so wonderfully much.

He dug in deeper, gasping when the metal scraped against bone. This was going to scar. He did it again and again. He filled his arm with cuts. Blood pooled around him. His eyes fluttered, threatening unconsciousness, but he pushed through it. He needed to feel something that didn't come directly from Bruce's absence.

"Clark?" Oliver was knocking at the door. Clark's eyes opened. Had he lost consciousness anyway? "Clark!" Oliver knocked at the door harder. "Clark, open the door!"

Clark didn't move. The arrow slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

"Clark, open the door. Don't make me crawl through the window."

Still he didn't move. His arm throbbed. It wasn't bleeding as profusely anymore. Maybe that was because he'd lost so much blood already. God, he wished Bruce was here to patch him up. They always patched each other up. As morbid as that might be, putting bandages on each other's wounds after battles were some of their sweetest times together. There was always so much compassion in Bruce's eyes--he understood Clark's pain and, while Clark could never hope to understand Bruce's pain in return, Bruce's kisses seemed somehow deeper after Clark finished taping gauze onto his wounds.

"Clark." Oliver was suddenly next to him. The armoire was still against the door, which meant Oliver ended up climbing through the window. He was in his Green Arrow suit, but his hood was down and his mask was off. He looked handsome. "Jesus. What did you do to yourself?"

Clark closed his eyes.

"Come on. I've got some bandages with me." Oliver took something out and started wrapping it around Clark's arm. "Jason told me he saw you in the cave and what you found. I should have told you."

Clark felt so tired. He just wanted to sleep.

"I'm sure you want an explanation," said Oliver, "But for now, you need some sleep and possibly a blood transfusion, and I don't even know where to begin with that."

"I'll heal," said Clark. His words were slurred. "I always do."

Oliver pulled him up, brought him over to the bed.

"Bruce could heal me. Bruce could--"

"I know, Clark. And I would call him, but..."

Now Clark opened one eye. "What? What happened?"

"I called him and tried to see what was going on. He was...very short with me. He said he doesn't want anything to do with anybody else anymore."

Clark sat up too quickly and his vision swam. "What do you mean? He isn't part of the League?"

"He said he wanted out."

"So he's pushing everyone away." For some reason, this gave Clark a little bit of hope.

Oliver pursed his lips. "I guess so." He brought the blankets up to Clark's chin and rearranged the pillows. "Clark, I think you need help. To talk to someone."

"I'm sorry about your arrow."

"Don't apologize for my arrow. You didn't hurt it. But you did hurt yourself, and I'm worried about that." Oliver took his seat again by Clark. There was blood on his uniform. Clark wondered if it was his blood or if it was Oliver's or if it was someone else's. Like Bruce, Oliver vowed not to kill but, also like Bruce, Oliver had no qualms when it came to making the bad guys bleed.

"Don't worry about me." Clark ignored how like Bruce he sounded here; he rolled to his side and cradled his bandaged arm to his chest. "Don't worry about me."

"You sound like Bruce."

Clark pressed down on the bandage, making his wound sting. "What else did he say?"

"Just that he wanted out and that he didn't want us to contact him again. He said he wanted to be solo and to be left alone and that he didn't want to see anyone in Gotham unless it was for strict business purposes, and if we did go there for business, he would do a full background check and decide if or being there was legit or not. I guess he's an expert on those sorts of things."

He was most certainly an expert. Bruce practically invented using his business as a cover; Oliver and Lex Luther and everyone else who did the same were only poor imitations. If anyone--even Oliver, who did have legitimate business in Gotham, and had been using his company as a front for years--tried to get into Gotham under false pretenses, Bruce would recognize it in a hearbeat.

"Anything else?"

"Before he hung up, he did tell me to use the kryptonite wisely."

Clark blinked back the tears that burned at his eyes. "Why you? Why did he give it to you?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever know." Oliver gently touched Clark's arm. The leather felt soft but foreign compared to the Batman's rougher glove texture. Why couldn't Clark stop comparing Oliver to Bruce? "Get some sleep. I'll check up on you from time to time. You're sure you'll heal?"

Clark nodded.

"Okay. I'm going to bring up some food later, but, for now, just get some rest." Oliver's lips brushed against Clark's forehead, and Clark blinked at him in confusion. "It'll get better," said Oliver. "Someday, it will get better."

Even after Oliver left, his words hung in the air. Someday? That didn't mean anything to Clark. He had no idea about his lifespan, but he imagined, with his superhero healing abilities, it would be significantly longer than any human. the thought depressed him when he was with Bruce, and it depressed him now. What did 'someday' mean to someone like Clark? A year? Ten? Would Clark have to wait an eternity for the ache in his chest in his chest to finally subside--for the mere thought of Bruce to not immediately place in him a feeling of despair? Would he have to wait an eternity to smile again without having to force it to stretch across his face?

Someday.

That meant nothing. That meant nothing at all. But he could dream, and, until then, he would just have to distract himself.


	11. Chapter 11

After his wounds healed, Clark went and found Tim and Damian, who were, for some reason, living together. Their apartment was curious to view: one half was an absolute mess, and the other side was meticulously neat. Clark couldn't tell whose idea was whose; either way, it made sense.

"Ah. Clark." Tim was only in his boxers and an open robe. He toweled his hair as he stepped aside, allowing Clark to enter. "Come on in."

"You never replaced the almond milk." Damian's voice came floating from somewhere else in the apartment. "God dammit Drake, if you're going to use the rest of the milk, you need to--" The boy stopped when he saw Clark, and his head tilted. "Mr. Kent."

He looked so much like Bruce. He wouldn't ever admit it, but he looked so much like Bruce, and he acted so much like Bruce. Clark tried to smile at him. "Hey, Damian."

"Jason said you might stop by." Tim closed and locked the door after Clark, double-checking the lock for some reason, and then turned around and threw his towel at his brother. "And I know you want answers, but we don't have any for you. I'm sorry."

"I don't think that's true," said Clark. Damian shrugged at him.

"Believe what you will. I'm surprised you've clung to hope for this after all that Father has done to you."

"You know too, then." Clark looked between both of them--two boys he would have called his sons in another lifetime. "He told you."

The boys exchanged glances. Tim raised his eyebrows and Damian glared at him. Clark wished he could speak their silent language. "Nah," said Tim after a moment, "Not really. We knew he was breaking up with you and why, and when we asked if he'd done it gently, he just said he told you the truth."

"And we are well aware of how harsh the truth was," said Damian. He was slowly and methodically rolling Tim's towel into a tight spiral--a weapon, Clark knew; Bruce had done a similar thing before.

"Jason said that I should be getting angry." Clark kept an eye on the towel. Though he knew Damian would never attack him, he also knew the kid was probably one of the only people who could cause Clark any sort of harm.

"As well you should," said Damian, and smacked the towel against the wall with an audible crack. "Todd occasionally does deliver solid advice, though he tries his best to prove that wrong."

"You don't hate me, do you?"

"Hate you?" Tim slurped at a mug of coffee--when had he gotten that?--and squinted at Clark. "Did Bruce say he hated you?"

"No." Clark honestly couldn't remember. It certainly _felt_ like it, and the words would perfectly align with the look in Bruce's eyes. "But I was wondering, just in case. Just in case you agreed with everything he said."

Tim and Damian exchanged another glance. Tim said, "Agree with what?"

Clark stared somewhere beyond Tim. His eyes refused to focus. "With the fact that I don't...mean anything. Not to him. That I'm...that I'm easily replaceable. Jason said I was just a fling that Bruce ended when he stopped enjoying himself."

"Maybe Todd was right about you being a fling," said Damian. He cracked the towel again and then wound it tighter. "But we don't think that other stuff."

"And that means a lot coming from him," Tim tried to joke.

"Shut up, Drake."

Clark rubbed at his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you both."

Damian released an almost comically-loud sigh. "Would you perhaps like a hug?"

Clark rubbed at his eyes again, sniffled, and nodded, and then Tim's arms were around him, and then Damian's arms were around him, and Clark sobbed into Tim's shoulder, and Tim said, "No matter what Bruce says, Clark, you're our dad, too," and Damian gave an affirming grunt.

Clark pulled away. "I shouldn't be coming to you for comfort," he said. "I shouldn't be asking you to choose sides like this. He's your father. Your real father."

Tim made a face. "He's as biologically my father as you are, Clark, and you know that."

"I...can't get angry at him. I can't do it."

"Then don't," said Damian. "That's Todd's schtick. He either gets angry, kills some people, gets himself killed, or some combination of the three. I wouldn't recommend any of those. I wouldn't recommend any of our coping methods, for that matter."

"Is this your coping method or Tim's?" Clark waved a hand at the apartment. "Living together, I mean."

Tim and Damian didn't have to exchange glances this time. Tim said, "We're trying it out," and Damian said, "There's a first time for everything," and before Clark could ask more questions, Damian added, "Aren't you staying with Queen?"

Clark nodded.

"Well, what does he recommend?"

"For how to deal with this? I don't know. I think he wants me to talk to someone."

"Like a therapist?" asked Tim.

"Yeah. He says he has the access to the best on this side of the world, and if he pulled some strings, he could have access to the best on the other side of the world, too."

"Sounds like Queen. You going to take him up on it?"

Clark collapsed into the nearest chair. It was pristine and smelled faintly of lavender. "I don't know. I haven't decided yet."

Tim played with the belt of his robe, winding it around his arm and then tugging it back into his hand. He watched Clark thoughtfully, head tilted. "Are you going to keep staying with him?"

"I don't know that, either." Clark didn't want to burden Oliver in any way, but he was also becoming attached to Star City; it wasn't Metropolis or Gotham, which meant that it wasn't too familiar, but it was still a big city, which meant it wasn't too foreign, either. "I could always get my own apartment," he said finally. "Lots of newspapers would take me."

"It would be hard to keep your cover," said Tim. "It would be obvious if you moved to Star City at the same time as Superman."

"I don't know if I _want_ to be Superman anymore."

Tim blinked at him. The belt of his robe slipped from his fingers. Beside him, Damian was also staring at him open-mouthed. "What?" Tim said at last. "What?"

"I don't know if I want to be Superman anymore," Clark said again.

"But _why_?" Damian pressed his hands to the sides of his head, aghast. "Why would you do that?"

"I don't _know_. Being Superman is supposed to be about hope, isn't it?"

Damian dropped onto the arm of Clark's chair and crossed his arms. "And, what, you don't have any hope left?"

"Maybe I don't."

"Kent, come on." Damian shoved Clark's shoulder with one hand, not nearly hard enough to move him but hard enough for Clark to feel it. "Don't let Father mess up _everything_ for you. You have to let this end before he ruins your entire life. He's already ruined Drake's."

"Has not," Tim said hotly, and yanked the towel from Damian's hands. "I dropped out of high school of my own volition."

"Sure, Drake. Sure."

"I don't know." Clark would stop saying that if he knew how, but for some reason the words kept slipping out, over and over, and it irritated him that it was just a reflection of his life right now: he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He didn't know where he was gong to go from here. He began his relationship with Bruce with high hopes, and as they continued his hopes got higher because he was beginning to _know_ Bruce more, and of course had to start planning their wedding (he wanted to elope, but he knew Bruce would probably want an actually nice wedding). He had begun to shape his life around Bruce--that was the problem. He'd even been okay with moving to Gotham. He'd been okay with giving up Superman _for Bruce_.

He was still giving up Superman for Bruce, wasn't he?

"No, you're not." Tim put his hand on Clark's shoulder, too. "You're not. You just don't remember what it means to be Superman. You're going to get back out there, and you're going to kick ass, and you're going to know exactly why you started all of this in the first place."

"Drake's given up at least four times since we've moved in," Damian announced. "You should've seen him. I think he was crying in his room."

"That's slander."

"It's true. By definition, it cannot be slander."

Clark tried to stand. "I should get going."

"Hey. Clark." Tim caught his sleeve before he could leave. "Think about what we said. Don't throw away the suit just yet, okay?"

"Fine," said Clark.

"Can you promise?"

Clark scowled. "Fine. I promise." He didn't particularly _like_ being ordered around by a couple of kids, but he also knew they were both geniuses, and they were both right.

"Keep in contact, okay?"

He'd agreed to do so with a countless number of people in the past couple of weeks, but he hadn't exactly taken anybody up on their "Let's talk, okay?" offer.

"Okay," he said. Tim gave him another hug, and then Damian gave him one, too.

"Take care of yourself," said Damian.

"I'll try," said Clark, and was surprised that he actually meant it.


	12. Chapter 12

He still couldn't hate Bruce. He still couldn't get angry at him. For a while he tried, but he only got angry at himself, because everything had been perfect so long (at least, he thought it had been perfect) and then it all ended, which meant it was Clark's fault. It was Clark who brought it all crashing down. How could he be mad at Bruce?

He did end up contacting Jason, and though Jason he got Dick's number, and then he talked to Barbara some, and they all said the same thing: forget about him. Stop thinking about him. He isn't worth it.

Clark resisted the urge to ask them if they still saw Bruce, or even if they still talked to him. What difference would it make? Clark wasn't allowed in Gotham. He wasn't allowed to talk to Bruce. Sometimes he was tempted to _listen_ for Bruce--to seek out that heartbeat he knew so well and just check up on him, but he didn't. He shoved that temptation away. He also shoved the temptation away to _google_ Bruce, because it would have been so goddamn easy to find literally anything on Bruce Wayne or the Batman.

He tried to heal. He really did. He asked Dick how to find happiness when everything seemed so dark--Dick was the kind of person who lived surrounded by darkness and yet always found a reason to smile--and Dick told him to find pleasure in the little things.

"The little things?" Clark had asked, immediately thinking of all those nights he'd gone out to bars and lot himself in random strangers.

"Just the little stuff," Dick said again. He looked grainy through the video cam, and he was wearing some sort of gray t-shirt. He'd forgone the mask. "If you like hot cocoa, drink hot cocoa every now and then and let yourself enjoy it. If you like marshmallows in your cocoa, pile those in. If you like sitting by yourself and reading for a couple of hours, try that out, too. You found happiness on your own before you met Bruce. You can do it again."

So he did. He'd always found happiness in sunshine and flowers, and he missed home, so that's where he went: he flew back to the farm and he kissed his mother on her dry cheek and he spent hours in the fields where he grew up, just breathing in the heat. When he needed something for his hands to do, he picked daisies and knotted them together into long chains, some of which he draped over his head, some of which he braided into his mother's hair.

“You seem happier,” said Martha, putting a hand on Clark’s arm. “You seemed so sad when you got here. Are you better?”

“Yeah, ma.” Clark tucked a daisy behind her ear and smiled—really smiled. “Yeah, I’m getting there.”

He was healing. He didn’t have the person he thought would be the love of his life—he didn’t have the person he thought he would have forever with—but that was okay, because there were always other people, and he could always try again, and even if he didn’t find anyone else who made him feel like Bruce made him feel, that would be okay, because he would find a way to be happy without marrying someone.

He sought out the Justice League, too.

They got closer. He was, of course, friends with them before, but Clark had always preferred Bruce’s company to theirs, and it wasn’t like Bruce ever liked hanging out in big groups. Now, there was no Bruce, and Clark invited the other Leaguers to come visit him, and they got closer.

Oliver came first, carting along Roy and Jason and Starfire. They brought dinner and Martha made dessert and they ate together as a family around the Kents’ worn oak table. Jason gave Clark a long hug. Clark said, “Do you want me to let Tim and Damian know you’re here? I could call Barbara, too,” and Jason laughed and shook his head and replied, “Nah. I’ll terrorize them next weekend.”

After Oliver and Roy and Jason and Starfire, Diana flew down and she showed Clark how to weave elaborate baskets out of the wheat in the fields and then she kissed his forehead and said, “May you find happiness in this darkness, Kal-el. The ancient gods of my people watch over you from the stars.”

Clark’s cheeks were wet. He held Diana to his chest and closed his eyes. He didn’t bother with words, because no words would be appropriate for the situation. He held her, and she held him, and they existed together for as long as they could.

And Hal and John came down, and they made Martha a temporary glowing green tractor and took care of all the crops that were perfect for harvest. Martha said, “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” as she came out with tall glasses of lemonade, and John took one of the glasses and told her that it was no problem at all.

And the members of the league kept going down, and Clark welcomed them all with open arms, and he felt a little better, and he felt a little better, and he kept on weaving baskets and making daisy chains and even started up quilting.

As a child, he told his parents that he would simply be too bored with a farm life—he wanted to go out and  _ do _ things. He wanted to save people. He wanted to be someone, not just a farm boy.

But this? This was nice. This was immensely nice. It was relaxing. Clark might have been happier if Bruce was here, but he was happy now, and that was enough.

“You still miss him?” Martha asked him one day as she was kneading bread. Clark slid into one of the stools at the counter and rested his chin on his hands. The Justice League had come in their entirety yesterday, and he was thoroughly exhausted. Did Captain Marvel  _ ever _ get enough food?

“Of course I still miss him,” said Clark, “But I’ll live.”

“I worried that you might be hurting yourself.”

Clark jerked in surprise. He stared at his mother, one eyebrow raised.

“I know you never liked to talk about it,” Martha said, “But you did try, and we knew you wouldn’t succeed, but we were still worried about you, and you never wanted to get help. I didn’t want you to relapse.”

“I didn’t know you noticed.” Clark looked down at his hands and twisted his fingers together. “I didn’t know either of you noticed.”

“Of course we did, sweetheart. And we tried suggesting therapy, but you were a teenager, and you were a superhero, and you thought you would be able to handle it on your own.”

Clark was quiet for a moment. He reached over to the dough and pinched off some, popping it in his mouth even though he knew it would just taste like yeast. Then he said, “I did. Hurt myself, I mean. But I’m okay, now.”

“You got help?”

“The League was my help, ma.”

Martha pressed her lips together. “Do you still think he was lying to you?”

He’d explained it all to her, slowly, the story coaxed out of his mouth with different batches of cookies and hot chocolate. He told her that he didn’t believe Bruce. He still didn’t. “I still think he did it to protect me,” said Clark, “And, maybe, one day he’ll think our environment is safe enough for him to tell me why.”

“Would you take him back?”

That seemed like a strange question. Clark never asked himself if he would take Bruce back—it was always a matter of whether Bruce would take  _ Clark  _ back. Because hadn’t Bruce been the one to reject Clark in the first place?

“I want to tell you not to,” said Martha as she sprinkled more flour onto the counter, “But I don’t want to give you an order. You’re a grown man, Clark, and I trust your judgment.”

“You didn’t like Bruce?”

“I don’t like what he’s done to you.”

“But he—”

Martha held up a hand. “Whether he was trying to protect you or not, he put you in a bad place and he treated you terribly.”

“But—”

“You shouldn’t ever feel like that in a relationship, period.” Martha sniffed. “You shouldn’t live in fear that you’re going to feel like that. You shouldn’t worry every moment that he’s going to leave you behind or he’s going to hurt you or whether you’re going to be worrying about where he is and what he’s doing and whether or not he’s alive.”

“He’s a  _ superhero _ , ma. Of course I’m going to worry about him. And he’s going to worry, too.” Bruce had given Clark permission, begrudgingly, to share with Martha the secret identity of the Batman. Martha had been impressed at the time. Now? Not so much. “He gets into danger constantly, just like me.  _ More  _ than me, because he’s just human.”

“And that gives him an excuse to cut off communication with you?”

“I can just  _ listen  _ for him.”

Martha shook her head. “And is he okay with that?”

Bruce had never explicitly specified his stance on Clark’s ability to listen to him at any point on Earth. He’d never said he didn’t want Clark to listen, and he’d never said he wanted Clark to listen; Clark would almost be tempted to say that Bruce didn’t even know that he had super-hearing, but then again, Bruce was the Batman, and there wasn’t a lot he didn’t know about the people around him. Besides, Clark was sure he’d more than once mentioned how much he loved Bruce’s heartbeat. He had to know.

“I didn’t think so,” said Martha. “I know Bruce is a private person, and I also know you respect him too much to invade his privacy like that.”

Yes. Respect—that was what Clark was made of. He stayed within his boundaries. He treated people the way he wanted to be treated. He was America’s Golden Immigrant and the only time he did things wrong were genuine mistakes. That was how Superman was  _ supposed  _ to be, and he tried to embody every aspect. Sometimes he wished that he didn’t.

“Go outside and soak in that sunlight, sweetheart,” said Martha to her son, a trace of a smile flickering at her lips. “I’ll call you inside when the bread is done.”

Clark lifted off his chair and she swatted him with a towel.

“And no flying in the house!”

He went outside and sat at the end of the porch, his legs dangling to the ground. The back porch faced the sunset, and the bedroom windows and front porch faced the sunrise, and because there was nothing for miles, each morning and evening was an exercise in artist inspiration. Clark breathed in deep and then let all the air out at once, the feeling of emptying his lungs oddly therapeutic. He pulled a daisy from the garden below him. Then another. Then another. He grabbed a handful of grass and he began weaving a tiny basket he knew wouldn’t last a week, but it would be beautiful all the same.

Then:  _ I’m sorry _ .

Then, again:  _ I’m sorry. _

Clark stilled. He cocked his head. He stretched out his hearing as far as it could go.

Again:  _ I’m sorry _ .

It was Bruce. It was unmistakably Bruce. But how had Clark heard him? He hadn’t been listening for him.

Again:  _ I’m sorry _ .

Was he talking to Clark? He stretched his hearing further, found Bruce’s heartbeat. It was familiar, but it was slow and irregular. It skipped beats. The lungs right next to that heart struggled to take in air.

Clark shot up into the air. “Ma!” he screamed into the house. “I have to go!” And, without waiting for an answer, he sped to Gotham.

He sped to Gotham, praying, praying.

_ Please be okay. _

Again:  _ I’m sorry _ .


	13. Chapter 13

He followed Bruce’s heartbeat to Gotham General Hospital. He ran in on his feet, the self-preservation meant to protect his identity kicking in before his panic could overpower it. At the desk, he put his hand on the counter and leaned toward the receptionist and gasped, not from exertion but from panic, “Bruce Wayne. Please.”

The receptionist blinked at him.

“I know he’s on this floor,” said Clark, and then he lied: “He told me.”

“Mr. Wayne isn’t taking any visitors,” said the receptionist.

“Please,” said Clark. “My name is Clark Kent. He knows me.”

The receptionist sighed now, her eyes filling with sympathy. “Mr. Kent, you’re on the list of people that he absolutely does not want let in. I’m sorry, but he doesn’t want to see you.”

No. No, that was impossible. Clark was sure Bruce was speaking to him and no one else. He stepped back from the counter and looked toward Bruce’s heartbeat—looked through all the walls separating them. Bruce was in a hospital bed. He looked deathly pale. There were a million tubes and wires connected to his skin. Weakly, he opened his eyes and seemed to look right at Clark, even though Clark knew he couldn’t see him. Bruce had done it before as the Batman, just to unnerve people.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered. “Go to Barbara. She’ll have the answers you want.”

Clark moved toward the first wall that separated them and pressed his hand and forehead to it, yearning to get closer but also knowing that there  _ had _ to be a reason he couldn’t go back there. Oh, he wished he could talk back to Bruce, wished he could speak to him.

“I’m…” Bruce’s eyes fluttered and he drew in a ragged breath. “Clark, I—”

Clark, just as he had all those months ago, sank to his knees.  _ Please hold on. Please hold on. _

“I’m sorry.” These words were barely louder than a breath: they came out in an exhale, shaped only by the slight movement of Bruce’s lips and tongue. The heartbeat stuttered again. Clark didn’t even have to listen for this one—he could see it on the monitors.

“He’s dying,” said Clark, whipping his gaze toward the receptionist. “Why isn’t anyone helping him? He’s dying!”

The receptionist swallowed. “Yes. He thought it might be today.”

“Please help him.”

“We can’t.”

Clark looked back at Bruce, who wasn’t even trying to speak anymore. The man, instead, was limp in his bed, barely breathing, barely living, his heart barely beating. “Why?” Clark’s voice was thick. “Why?”

“He doesn’t want to be helped.”

Clark couldn’t move. Even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to look away from Bruce again. He was right. He was right all along.

“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered back. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay by you. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder. I should’ve—” The words cracked and he pressed a hand to his mouth. He didn’t care that he looked crazy—that he was just some guy in a ridiculous amount of plaid and denim, pressed against the wall and sobbing his goddamn heart out. “I should’ve tried harder.”

Bruce didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear Clark and each breath he took was shallower and shallower.

Clark wept.


	14. Chapter 14

The Batman should have gone down in a blaze of glory. He had mastered the art of self-sacrifice, and that’s how the world should have taken him. Maybe some baddie had taken a bus of orphan kids and put a bomb on it and the Batman saved the orphans and then drove the bus to the middle of an isolated field to explode without harming anyone else. Or maybe someone like Ra’s al Ghul made some terrible demand for the Batman to sacrifice himself or Ra’s would blow up a city, and the Batman did it on camera to prove that he was really dead.

And Bruce Wayne—Bruce Wayne should have gone quietly in his old age. He should’ve been next to the one he loved, surrounded by the city he loved, with the family he loved. And he should’ve passed with a smile on his face, because he deserved that much after all he’d given to the people around him.

But neither of these things happened. Instead, Bruce Wayne—the Batman—the philanthropist—the genius—the billionaire—the playboy—the father—the friend—the lover—died alone, struggling for breath, sick and miserable and lonely and begging a man for forgiveness when he knew he would die without ever hearing whether he was forgiven. He died, defeated by something he had no chance of defeating: his own body.

And Clark mourned him. He mourned him for hours. He pleaded with the nurses and doctors that rushed past him to Bruce’s room to allow him to go with them, to let him at least see the body, but they ignored him or they refused him, and Clark eventually had to stumble out of the hospital with only Bruce’s apology and direction to take with him.

Oliver Queen was outside in a neat business suit. He leaned against a limousine, arms crossed, but stood straight when Clark came closer. “Hey,” he said.

“Did you know?” Clark’s voice was hoarse.

“I only knew that you were coming here and I figured you didn’t think you had any choice. So I did some calling and…” He lifted a hand, gesturing to the hospital. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

No more words would come out. Clark just nodded.

“Clark, I…I’m sorry.” Oliver stepped forward and Clark fell into his arms. Everything left him. He cried harder than he ever remembered crying before. He cried and all feeling in his legs gave out and Oliver just held him and pressed his mouth to Clark’s temple and maybe he was crying too, but Clark couldn’t tell.

And then, afterward, after what felt like an eternity, they sat in the limo together, and Oliver held tightly to Clark’s hand, and Clark said, “Barbara,” and Oliver looked over at him.

“What?”

“Barbara Gordon. Bruce said that she would have the answers.”

So they went to Barbara. Oliver directed his driver to take them to Commissioner Gordon’s house and they got out and Jim Gordon gave Clark a gruff, “So he’s gone, then. I’m sorry,” and then stepped aside and Barbara was behind him.

“Hey, Clark. Oliver,” she said, and Clark and Oliver each gave her a long hug and told her that they were so, so sorry for her loss, and she tried to smile.

“I’ve been getting used to it. For me, Bruce has been dead for months.”

Oliver and Clark looked at each other, then back at her. She gave them another smile—gentle and sympathetic.

“Come here. I have all the explanations.”

In her bedroom, she leaned over and peeled back a secret panel of her floor. There was a box of letters. She opened it, grabbed the top envelope, and handed it to Clark, and then handed the box to Oliver. “Your letters. You can take the rest to the League, Oliver.” It wasn’t really a request; it was an order. Oliver wouldn’t have refused it even if he’d wanted to. Clark held the envelope between pinched fingers. “If you want to see the rest of the kids, I think they’ve gone to the manor.”

“Would he—would he want me to go to the manor?”

Barbara put her hand on Clark’s. “Go to them. I have my dad, but they only have each other.”

Clark left Oliver there. He flew to the manor and Dick was there at the gates to welcome him with open arms. Tim hugged him too, and then Damian, and Jason, who was standing in the corner, gave Clark a stiff nod.

Clark went to him and hugged him, too. Jason gave hugs like Bruce: tight, clinging—like he was afraid that Clark might leave him at any second, his nose pressed into the curve of Clark’s neck, feet planted apart for maximum sturdiness.

“He’s dead,” said Clark.

“Gotham General called.” Dick scratched the back of his neck and then took Damian under his arm.

“Babs said he’s been dead for months.”

“For us,” said Jason. “Just for us. Bruce said his goodbyes a long time ago, and then we left, and he stayed here.”

“Why?”

“It's all in the letter.”

Clark looked at the envelope in his hands. He could barely breathe. His name was on the front in Bruce’s elegant script, written in a black gel pen. If Clark put the paper to his nose, he imagined he might smell Bruce. The manor was just a short walk away, too; he could go there and smell Bruce and sit in Bruce’s living room and go into Bruce’s office and lie on Bruce’s bed.

“Let’s go inside,” said Tim, reading Clark’s mind, and they walked back to the manor together, and Clark tried not to inhale too obviously as he sank into the couch cushions of the sitting room. Jason sat to his left and Dick sat to his right with Damian on his lap, even though Damian was much too old to be sitting in anyone’s lap, and Tim sat in the love seat across them.

“You got letters, too?” Clark asked.

“No. We talked to him,” said Dick.

“But I didn’t.”

Jason sighed. “Read the letter, Clark. It’ll explain a lot.”

So Clark opened the letter.


	15. Chapter 15

_ Kal-el— _

_ I owe you many explanations. I wish I could have explained all of this to you in person, face-to-face like we always liked to be when we talked, but if you’re reading this, that means such an explanation would be impossible. _

_ If you’re reading this, that means I’m dead. _

_ Where do I begin? I always somehow knew it would end up like this but, now that I’m facing my demise, I’m at a loss for words. Kal, I often dreamed about growing old with you and eventually passing away still in your embrace. I dreamed I could die happy. I dreamed I could be at peace—not only with myself, but with the world, as well. _

_ And then my world ended, and all of those dreams came crashing down. _

_ I think what hurts the most is the fact that you probably never stopped believing in me. When I first fell in love with you, I had to plan for something like this, and the cruel words I delivered should have been enough to push you to the opposite end of the universe, but it didn’t work in the beginning, and I imagine it didn’t work in the end, either. _

_ Clark, you deserve to know why all of this happened. Certainly the Justice League deserves to know why their leader abandoned them, but you, who I could once call the love of my life—you, perhaps, deserve the most to know. _

_ I’m poison. I don’t mean that in the figurative sense. I mean that I’m actually, literally poison. _

_ About seven months ago, I was attacked by a new enemy. I still do not know her name. She injected me with a serum that seemed harmless at first but quickly revealed its true intentions: it was poison. It was poison for me and, eventually, it was poison to everyone else, too. _

_ In the beginning, though, it was just poison to me. It made me weaker. Slower. My thoughts took too much time to process, and my fighting technique worsened. I did try to find a cure. I searched for a cure and then more symptoms began appearing and soon it was impossible for me to search any longer. _

_ My blood began taking on curious qualities. I almost didn’t notice at first, but Tim, who has always been more observant than I, pointed it out to me: if he was within a hundred feet of me, his performance levels significantly decreased. Together we deduced that I had become, in a sense, a conduit for this poison. I told Tim and Damian and Alfred to leave and I contacted my other kids to stay away. I knew, at this point, that I would not be able to survive this. Further testing proved that the poison had become a part of me—a part of my blood—and to rid myself of it would destroy my body entirely. _

_ For some time, I only affected humans. I used this to my advantage. I dedicated more hours to cleaning up Gotham and left business to Tim; I was weak but, because of my ailment, they were even weaker. _

_ I hoped that this was all the serum would do, but that was not the case. Soon I began noticing an effect on the League members, as well. I knew it would affect the human members, but one day J’onn complained of general fatigue, and in the next hour Diana found herself dizzy, and I knew. _

_ I believe the assailant planned this all along. For years, I had led the Justice League, and so my assailant decided that I would be the perfect tool for their downfall. If I continued to spend time with them, the poison would continue to adapt to their particular weaknesses, and we would all lose our strength, and what would the world’s greatest heroes be then? My assailant was attempting to use me to tear the League apart, and I couldn’t have that. _

_ You, Clark, lasted the longest. Perhaps it was because of your Kryptonian blood. Perhaps the poison had to work to replicate kryptonite. Perhaps I was just in denial, and you never noticed. But, like all the others, I became a weapon against you, and I therefore became a means to your downfall. _

_ You always said you felt weak in the knees around me, Clark, but it got to the point where that would have been literal. I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t bear it. And so I did what I had to do, and I pushed all of you away. I did what I had to do, and I pushed you away. _

_ I wish there had been another way. God, I tried so hard to find another way. But I considered all my options fully, as I always did, and this is it: you all needed to be united against me. If you hadn’t been, you would have broken apart. If I hadn’t pushed you away enough, you would have tried to come after me—to heal me, to fix me—and, that far into my infection, I couldn’t have that. What if my assailant had planned something? What if she was going to attack as soon as you were all caught off guard—when you were weak? I couldn’t allow that to happen. _

_ The first time I collapsed was a couple weeks ago. I know my time was close. Oh, how I missed you. I ached for you. It isn’t my place to say such things after I hurt you so terribly, but it’s true. I never stopped loving you. I never stopped longing for you. You asked me out that first night at the gala and I dreamed about our future afterward—god, I planned our wedding. I wanted an outdoor wedding. It would just be you and me and maybe some family and friends, only those we loved the most. And the walkway would be lined with sunflowers, and we’d use the sunlight as our veils, and I’d kiss the smile on your face and afterward we would disappear for months, just traveling the world, loving each other and loving life. _

_ I thought, maybe, the universe at least owed me that. But here we are, both alone. If there’s life after death, I hope I can watch you get married in the future and find that happiness that you deserve. _

_ You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this. You don’t deserve to have been left behind, and you don’t deserve to have been treated the way I treated you, and I’m so, so sorry. And I know that’s not enough but, for now, for the rest of my life, that’s all I can offer you: my regret, my sorrow, my deepest apologies. _

_ It’s getting too difficult to write, and the hospital staff is going to turn off the lights. I wish I could keep going. I wish I could tell you exactly how much you mean to me. I wish we could talk about what could have been. _

_ I know this, Clark: I love you. You’re my everything. I shouldn’t have hesitated when you first said that to me—I shouldn’t have let my ailment distract me from the present and detract from our time together. Oh, I love you. And I don’t expect you to love me back after all of this, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I do have one hope, Clark. One wish. _

_ Please don’t forget me. I’m not frightened to die alone, but I am frightened of being forgotten. Maybe that’s selfish. I cannot bring myself to _


	16. Chapter 16

Clark looked up. His vision was blurry, and he could barely make out Dick’s face in front of him. “Where’s the rest?”

A hand fell on his shoulder. “That’s all there is.”

“No, there has to be more. He didn’t finish this sentence.”

The hand squeezed his shoulder. “There isn’t any more, Clark. I don’t know if it was because the lights went out or he was too weak to write anymore. He died only a few days later. He wasn’t…in the best shape when he wrote this.”

“He died,” Clark whispered. He traced the words on the paper—pressed too deep, like Bruce always wrote. If Clark closed his eyes, he could feel the letters. He could feel the imprint that Bruce left behind. “He died all alone. He didn’t even have the comfort that his friends still loved him.”

Dick let out his breath. The hand left Clark’s shoulder and carded through Dick’s hair. He looked too tired for his age.

“But he loved me. And he never stopped loving me. I was right.”

“Yeah.” Dick’s voice was quiet. “Yeah, you were.”

“You all told me to leave it alone, but I was right. All along, I was right.”

Dick closed his eyes. Jason’s hand, hesitantly, brushed Clark’s shoulder, too.

“It’s missing so much. What about the kryptonite?”

Tim answered: “Bruce gave Oliver his stash of kryptonite because he knew he was dying already and he trusted Oliver enough to take care of it. He would have given it to us, but we all moved around too much to have one safe location.”

“I could have taken it,” said Jason, apparently unable to help himself.

“You have several hundred pounds of it already, Todd. Learn to share.”

“Fair enough.”

Clark touched the letters on the page, touched the unfinished sentence, touched the incomplete thoughts.

“Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he tell you about all of this but not me?”

“We’re used to Father’s antics,” said Damian. “We know how to back off when he tells us to. We know when to accept that there are no answers.”

“Some of us take it easier than others,” said Jason with a raised eyebrow in Dick’s direction, “But, in any case, you didn’t have that. If Bruce hadn’t been so cruel to you, you would’ve tried to stick around and tried to fix him and help him and Bruce already knew he wouldn’t find a cure.”

“I could’ve—”

“No,” said Tim, “You couldn’t have. He knew you, Clark, and he knew that you wouldn’t be able to stay away if he didn’t force you to. He was trying to save you. He was an asshole, and he destroyed you, but you’re alive still, and that’s all he wanted.”

“I would have died for him,” said Clark. Dick sighed again.

“Yeah. He was well aware of that.”

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“He knew you loved him.”

Clark folded the letter back up and tucked it into the envelope. He wasn’t going to reread it now, but he also knew that he would read it again and again in the next few months, and he would memorize every word.

“He said goodbye to all of us before he sent us away,” said Tim, “And so we accepted that as his death, because he told us not to contact him anymore. And that was hard for him, but he got through it. But you, Clark…there’s a reason he waited until the last second to write that letter. It was excruciating for him. He couldn’t bear to say goodbye to you.”

“And I  _ told  _ him,” said Jason, “Not to wait until the last second, but he went ahead and did exactly that.”

He was trying to add humor to the situation. Clark wasn’t sure if it worked. He felt numb.

“He’s really gone.”

All of Bruce’s kids just looked at him.

“It doesn’t feel like he’s gone.”

Still no answer. No one knew what to say.

Dick shrugged. “Anything. You know he wouldn’t want us to dwell in the past. He’d want us to move on, live our lives to the fullest. His goal was always to get us to the point where we would no longer need the Batman.”

“Obviously you can stay here,” said Damian, “If you want to. He gave the house to me and Tim with an open invitation to a very short list of people, and you were on there. So you can stay. We’ll give you his room.”

Clark reached over to the boy and touched his hand. “That’s why you and Tim were staying together. You wanted to get used to living alone in the same place.”

He shrugged, mimicking Dick. “That, and we all were doing our best to distract from what was happening to Father. Gordon went to her father. Grayson went to do missions on the other side of the planet so he wouldn’t be tempted to visit Father. Drake and I moved in together so we could use our irritation at each other to help us forget that we were both losing our father.”

They’d been going through so much. Clark had been pitying himself for months, but these kids had been mourning their father—and they’d had to disparage his name while they were doing it, too.

“Stay just for tonight,” said Tim. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“And,” said Jason, “We’re taking the old man’s ashes to his grave in the morning.” There was a catch in his voice—when he had died, he’d been buried near Thomas and Martha Wayne’s graves; when he’d come back, he’d had to dig himself out of that grave. It couldn’t be easy to go back.

“Okay.” Clark touched Jason’s hand, then looked back at Tim. “I’ll stay. Just for now.”


	17. Chapter 17

He couldn't sleep. The entire room smelled like Bruce. In this bed, he'd hugged Bruce, had sex with Bruce, loved Bruce, and now he was alone, and the smell clung. It would cling for years. Jason would try to joke that the house couldn't let go of him either, and Clark would laugh, and then he would come back to this room and cry.

In the next few months, he would read Bruce's letter over and over again. He would remember every word, and those words would haunt him for years each time he went to sleep. The words would eventually fade and the creases of the pages would become fragile with overuse, but eventually Clark would just keep the letter for the sake of keeping it, because there would be no part of it that he couldn't immediately call to mind.

In the next few weeks, Clark would return to being Superman. He would make an appearance again, and Lois would find him and kiss his cheeks and forehead and hug him until he broke down, but he would be Superman, and the world would have its golden hero, just like Bruce wanted.

After that appearance, Clark would meet with the League again, and they would discuss Bruce's sacrifice, and then they would discuss how to honor him. Obviously they needed to stay together and keep fighting, they said, but why don't they do something special for the Batman? And then the Justice League would each incorporate a bat into their costumes, and that would represent how Bruce was always there, how he had shaped them, how he had saved them, how they would never forget him. Even after all the current Leaguers were through and the Leaguers who replaced them had never met the Batman, the symbols would still be in their costumes, because they at least knew who the Batman was and what he meant. The founders would never let them forget. The _world_ would never let them forget.

And Clark? Clark would live for too long. Eventually he would retire, and he would split his time between the manor and his mother's ranch, and as each Wayne and Grayson and Drake and Gordon and Todd generation continued, he would watch over them, and he would hold their hands as they died, and he would become a legend in each of their families. They would whisper about how he always watched over the manor, how he never let it wear down, how he was always there, and he always looked the same.

He would live for too long. He would watch everyone live and die. He would hold Oliver as an old man and kiss his weathered cheek and they would try to laugh about their past. He would find Hal on his dying breath and would comfort him as he met Death. He would grip John's hand. He would weep with Hawkgirl. He would watch Billy Batson grow and then bid him farewell when he grew too old to transform. He would hold a long and solemn funeral, alone, for J'onn, because all of J'onn's friends would have passed by then. He would lose his friends. He would lose his lovers. He would lose his companions. He would lose Metropolis, even, when it is consumed by another up-and-coming city.

But he would never lose his memory of the Batman, and he would never lose his memory of Bruce. How could he? Each time the League would fight a new villain threatening to destroy the world, he would know it was Bruce who made it possible. Each time he would look at himself in the mirror, he would know that he was only alive because of Bruce. Bruce hadn't been able to grow old and he hadn't been able to go down in a blaze of glory, but he would have painted the world all the same with his presence, and, as long as people could tell stories--even if they exaggerated and made the Batman out to be a vampire or a superhuman or an alien--they would never forget the Batman.

For now, though, Clark tried to sleep. He put Bruce's letter on the nightstand, wanting to hold it but also knowing he might crush it in his sleep. He stared at it and he tried to cry but no tears would come. It was going to be a long night.

It was going to be a long rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck around for the whole thing! I wrote this in like two days in a depression haze because my friend said he wanted me to make him cry (again, I should say; if you want the first part, check out Bargain Band-Aids and Scotch Tape). You'll be seeing me again in like. idk some time when I write an alternate happy ending because i'm too soft :*


End file.
